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Kenebucks hands clenched suddenly on the glass. He stared at Ian, and then burst out into a laugh that rang a little wildly against the emptiness of the large room. Meantime, poetry is catching up with science fiction (and/or vice-versa). In Britain, poetry-and-s-f has virtually a Movement of its own. Here in the states, the situation—as with fiction—is less focused, but the same trend is evident. It started in the little magazines, two or three years ago. Now you find Dick Allen inAntioch Review, Sonya Dorman in theSaturday Review, Gerald Jonas inF&SF, R. P. Lister in theAtlantic, Tuli Kupferberg inEast Side Review—and how many others, I cannot begin to guess; I mention only those I have happened to notice—plus, of course, the original poetry-and-s-f man, John Ciardi. (Fifteen years ago, when Ciardi and I were both visiting members of the late Fletcher Pratts Chas. Addams household on the New Jersey shore, Ciardi was editing a series of science-fantasy books for Twayne, and it was from him that I had my first fictionassignment: a chance to write a story without regard to the magazine-market restrictions or demands.)* * * * A passing lizard caught his attention. He put his foot on it and squashed it slowly with the toe of his right boot. He noticed with mild satisfaction that the thing had left a small blood smear at the end of his boot. Oddly, however, seeing the blood triggered something in his mind, and for the first time he vaguely recognized the possibility that he could be hurt. In training he had not thought much about that. Mostly you thought of how it would feel to kill a man. After a while you got so that you wanted to kill. You came to love your rifle, like it was an extension of your own body. And if you could not feel its comforting presence, you felt like a part of you was missing. Still a person could be hurt. You might not die immediately. He wondered what it would be like to feel a misshapen chunk of lead tearing through his belly. The Russians would x their bullets too, probably. They do more damage that way. "I like it. I buy it." After dinner I returned to the novel and read it to the end, and knew that I had guessed right.The machine had left the book unfinished. Tom had completed the twelfth chapter himself, and added three more. His real reason for asking me to read the book was not to get my opinion of its style but to see whether I could tell the difference between the machines work and his imitation of it. The Olympic War Games are the answer—the only answer. Thanks to the Olympic War Games we are at peace. Today one hundred of our finest fighting men will meet one hundred Russian soldiers to decide whether we shall be victorious or shall go down to defeat. The loser must pay the victor reparations of ten billion dollars. The stakes are high. The girl remained in view for a few seconds, dress glowing warmly, then moved back into the room. Suddenly I received a distinct, though inexplicable, impression she was blind. My feeling was that Selina and I were perhaps blundering through an emotional interplay as violent as our own. Cordice, I suppose you know they can regenerate that finger for you back on Earth, he said. He combed three fingers through his beard. Biofield therapists work wonders, these days.” Its a nice room. Very big but warm, with the Office fitting snugly in one corner, some tables with flowers in vases, rows of chairs in front of the TV set which stands on a high shelf where we can’t reach it. Now look, Filmore said, I know she was putting either salt or pepper on those eggs. I remember, now, seeing the shaker in her hand. Now that I think about it, I clearly remember seeing a shaker in her hand,” he insisted. For now he didnt even have his money to help ward off the loneliness. "I tell you, Rampy," Clarence Little-Saddle squared on him, "a man that lets his wife get away twice doesnt deserve to keep her. I give you till night fall; then you forfeit. Ive taken a liking to the brood. One of us is going to be down there tonight." My poor business, unimportant though it is, will require it least one week; at the most, ten days. Candron said, knowing full well that twenty-four hours would be his maximum, if everything went well. Sabina hesitated in the doorway, surveying the main room. Nothing caught her eye except for the dead woman and the pistol. As much as she wanted to leave, to breathe the cold, moist air outside, she went instead to where the pistol lay. She knelt, drew a deep breath, picked up the weapon. In doing so, she noticed a long, evidently recent gouge along the sides of both gate and barrel. She held the muzzle to her nose long enough to determine that it had not been fired, then replaced the pistol in the exact position in which it had been before, with Prudence Egans finger touching the trigger guard. Midday in the city was even more spectacular. The sirens of all the factories shrilled, and instantly the streets were crowded. Men and women headed for their respective homes, where there were quick kisses all around and where the babies were lifted into the air like flags. The Red Egg smiled. In the laboratory hed fled from, he had never heard speak of love. Something in my heart told me that if the Ox said we had to build a bridge, he knew how to do it, and I was ready to follow him. He winked at me. "I guess so." "You call me An." The voice was even, detached, with an inflection that is golden. I was lying in bed, reading, and I saw it at the foot of my bed. I had the club—.
